


The thing he had made

by Amyreadsandstresses



Series: The Child Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Parent Sherlock, Parentlock, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock's Past, Single Parent Sherlock, Unilock, Unplanned Pregnancy, What Have I Done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28877742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amyreadsandstresses/pseuds/Amyreadsandstresses
Summary: Sherlock stared at it. The small creature stared back at him, wearing a piercing blue gaze he recognized as his own. He observed it for the first time in days, taking in the terrifyingly fragile thing that laid on the small replica of a bed. The thing he had made in his stupidity, the thing he was dooming in his weakness, the single thing he had left from the only person he’d found interesting in these wretched halls -and the only one who had been capable of tolerating him in return. She would be so disappointed, he was failing her. He was ruining it, just as he always feared he would.Lost in a haze of alcohol and drugs and reeling from loss, Cambridge student Sherlock must make a choice. What happens now? He may just ruin it.---So, this is just an idea that had been invading my head for days, so I decided to write it down and see what happens. It's pre-canon, so Sherlock is still a nineteen-year-old kid. Long before he became the Consulting Detective we all know and love.There did need to be a female companion here, but I have always considered Sherlock to have a preference for men, it just seems natural, so the dynamic a bit weird. But then, this is Sherlock.
Relationships: Past Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Series: The Child Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118003
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	The thing he had made

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first attempt at writing Sherlock, I do think I managed to keep it in character, but I hope you agree. If you are somehow reading this, then thank you very much and I hope you like it.  
> :)
> 
> I sadly don't own Sherlock. But I do own Bethany Holmes, Gina, and Jack; as well as the plot.  
> Please don't repost this fic anywhere without my permission and credit.

He woke up to a headache. His body, a shamble of limbs collapsed on his unmade bed, was stiffer than the lab bench. He'd spent the night out on the city, sleeves rolled up and wrinkled trousers the only protection against the cold midnight air of Cambridge city. He’d done a line. Again. He’d added in a bottle of vodka. Again. Whatever had come after that, he didn’t remember. 

With a groan, Sherlock rolled over on the bed, cradling his pounding head between his hands. His eyes went to the crook of his elbows; no punctures. Good. It had been months since his last encounter with a seven percent solution, an affair he couldn’t permit anymore, not now that it was here. Lines it was.

Sherlock got to his feet, stumbling the first few steps and holding onto the wall for support, trying to keep his knees as away from the wooden floor as he could. He stepped over dirty laundry, bottles and rubbish on his way to the kitchen. Water sounded divine. 

He grabbed a dirty cup from the sink and held it under the faucet until it filled, rubbing a fist against his eyes, peeling off the crust at the corners. God, his throat ached; it had for days. Hopefully, it wouldn’t catch whatever it was from him, that would terribly complicate things. Not that it wasn't all unbearably complicated now. The past two weeks had been unbearable. Spent in a haze of vodka and cocaine, days stuffed with wailings and filth, nights spent in sweet oblivion; he’d had good days, of course, days when he didn’t use at all, when he welcomed Gina in the soon-to-be-lost flat and allowed her to fuss for a few minutes. How he put up with the woman was a mystery. He pretended it had nothing to do with who had been her best friend. The woman that had bled to death two weeks ago. The one that left him and the creature alone. 

It had been a bad night. The creature wouldn’t stop screaming it’s lungs out until it was red in the face. He’d been holding it for hours, not looking at it directly, never that. Not since the night it’d all gone to hell. At exactly midnight his resolve had broken, he’d left it sleeping and gone out, sent three days clean to the wind. He’d gone and gotten some. Just a line. 

Now, the creature was quiet.

Too quiet.

Dread built up in his veins. He looked frantically for a clock. Midday. It should be wailing by now. Should have been hours ago. Sherlock dropped the cup, hurried back to the bedroom, looming over the cot they’d bought months ago. The quiet cot. A rock dropped at the pit of his stomach, the small body didn’t move, didn’t cry. Had he ruined it already?

A sigh. Thank God. His eyes raked over it, noting the dried tear stains on its cheeks and the swollen eyes. Woke several times in the morning, cried, he didn’t hear it. There was dried milk on its ear, how it had gotten there, he didn’t know and the smell indicated the nappy had been soiled recently, more than once. There was a tug at his chest, Sherlock had wanted this to be better, not good perhaps, but not this. Isabel had wanted better too.

His hand reached into the cot, a finger sliding from the forehead to the tip of the nose. Isabel 's nose. She had been a ridiculous woman, in a similar way to his. Meant to be, Gina had said. He had scoffed at it. They hadn’t been much of anything, nor would they ever if his previous preference for male companions was any indication. They were hardly friends really. Just Sherlock and Isabel, the only ones who stayed in the lab after dark. The ones who spent blurred nights together for the sake of chasing out boredom. Look at where it’d gotten them. He would have to drop out soon. She was rotting underground. Their creature had spent the morning alone. Pathetic. 

Sherlock stared at it. The small creature stared back at him, wearing a piercing blue gaze he recognized as his own. He observed it for the first time in days, taking in the terrifyingly fragile thing that laid on the small replica of a bed. The thing he had made in his stupidity, the thing he was dooming in his weakness, the single thing he had left from the only person he’d found interesting in these wretched halls -and the only one who had been capable of tolerating him in return. She would be so disappointed, he was failing her. He was ruining it, just as he always feared he would.

He wanted a hit. A proper hit. But he’d promised Isabel he wouldn’t do it again, back when she was not too big and he had disappeared for the night. It’s not their fault, Isabel had pleaded, a hand on her still relatively flat stomach. It’s not their fault we fucked up.  
She had managed to stop immediately, the minute she learned, Isabel had dropped the drugs and the alcohol and the night drives around the city. He had needed time, but he had done it eventually. For the creature. 

Bethany. Ridiculous meaning if you cared for the Bible. But if one were to look at the etymology of the name, one would find several far more interesting possible meanings. Their favourites had been two. House of Song and House of Truth. Perfect for the offspring of a musician and two scientists. He had agreed to it quickly. 

Bethany, he said to himself, looking down at it. No. Looking down at his daughter. She had his eyes. She had his curls. She looked neglected. Sherlock took a deep breath, curling his fingers and the edge of the cot until his knuckles turned white in their strain. He looked at her again, properly, and went to get the phone, dialing the number Isabel had made him memorize two years ago.

“Sherlock?”

“Gina” he passed his tongue over his lips. “May the child stay with you for a week, perhaps longer?”

“Why?” she sounded scared. He couldn’t blame her. She’d seen the state of them.

“I… I need her to be somewhere else for some time” she gave a sharp intake of breath “while I get clean, it shouldn’t take long, it was just a line.”

“Oh Sherlock”

“Spare me the lecture” he snapped, blood boiling.

“No lecture, promise” Gina’s voice was quiet, weary. He’d done that, he knew. “Pack a bag for the two of you, Jack can help with Beth. You shouldn’t detox alone.”

“I can handle myself just fine.” Why did he put up with this woman, honestly? She sounded like Mycroft.

“Doesn’t mean you should” a breath, two breaths. “Stay too, for Sabel, she would have never forgiven me had she known I let you get clean alone.”

“Sabel doesn’t know anything anymore, she’s dead.” he regretted it the second the words left his mouth. He really was trying to ruin it all, wasn’t he?

“You’re right,” she said, after seconds of bone-chilling silence “but I’ll know, and I wouldn’t forgive me either. Come too, you can have the sofa.” 

He clenched his jaw, the last thing he wanted was to be seen as a shaking, blubbering mess. The pitiful bulge of sweating flesh he became with withdrawal. But, hate it as he might, she was right. Isabel would have beaten him into detoxification a long time ago. And she would have stayed, even when he got angry and called her the worst names he could conjure. She would have put up with him, because he wouldn’t make it alone. He would make it even less now. 

Sherlock looked down at the cot again. He looked at the fragile, small, innocent thing he had made. The child he was failing, the one he would doom if he didn’t make it. The one that had his eyes. The Child, the only one he would ever have, hopefully. The one he refused to ruin. He wouldn’t fail at this, Sherlock Holmes didn’t fail. Sodd anyone who thought he couldn’t do this, anyone who would try and stop him. He would, and he could. 

He could. He had to.

“Fine. An hour”

Be-tha-ny. House of Truth.


End file.
